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Rugby - Not just for breakfast anymore
Nov. 22nd, 2003 10:46 pmI have not written a posting for awhile. The food remains great. I went to a festival for Santa Maria della Salute on Friday with some new friends, some of whom are here doing research in the Archivo di Stato. I’ll write more about such lovely things later. Today was the day for Rugby. I had a great time watching this game, but had no one to share it with. So, I’m sharing it with you all.
This is not the beautiful game. This is a game where massive, unarmored, men slam into each other and drive them to the turf, then keep pushing and pushing, playing a game of field position, penalties, strength. Where the scrums lock and the men drive their legs into the ground, straining to stay off the turf, fighting for inches, inches.
This is a game of grace, though. The high, perfectly timed, kicks or the darting passing of the ball on the ground, and this ball was never meant to roll so true. The sudden swift chain of passes to the sidelines and the ‘little quick’ guys who dart, fearlessly, into the line of opposing players, hoping, like in the child’s game of Red Rover, to break through by sheer audacity and speed. The kicker for England, the superstar, perhaps the best rugby player in the world, Johnny Wilkenson – he’s a pretty boy, compared to some, but he plays the game with the force and grace of a master martial artist. He’s capable of kicking the ball anywhere, with any arc, any path, at any time. When he has the ball, the opponents have to be afraid of where he might send it. You know that if England wins, it will be on his shoulders. But he also can grab an enemy, lift him into the air, rob him of the ball, and slam him to the ground. They compare him to Beckham, because both seemingly can make the ball do anything, but Beckham never had such power or such grace. Beckham never has battled, and bested, giants.
Australia vs. England. The rugby world cub final.
I am not a rugby fan, by which I mean that I like and mostly understand the sport but do not follow it with the obsessive nature that I do the NFL, NBA, MLB, college basketball, the world of soccer generally, and so forth. Every time I’ve seen a Rugby World Cup (RWC henceforth) game this fall, it’s been a blowout, with one superior to the other from the getgo. Poor Japan (who even lost to the U.S.), plucky but tiny, straining against the behemoths of Fiji. New Zealand strewing their lesser foes in their wake, before finally falling to Australia. Wilkenson nailing drop-kick after drop-kick, never missing a penalty, just adding nail after nail to the coffin of England’s opponents. 6’7” (head to toe and, it seems, shoulder to shoulder) Frenchmen who I suspect would like to have a word with those Americans who so blithely question France’s will to fight (my favorite joke is: How many French soldiers does it take to defend Paris? No one knows, it’s never been tried! Don’t make that joke to these men.). It’s a fun game to watch, but having missed the semifinals, I was hoping to finally see a great game.
But here was Australia vs. England. And although in U.S. Football they often hit harder, blindsiding their opponents, the NFL has nothing on this game for the sheer force of contact again and again and again and again without the constant pauses. The battle began.
Australia jumped up right away, 5-0. A beautifully timed kick from the center of the pitch to the large wing, Tuqili, who blocked out the English defender and scored the try. But then England, carefully, calmly, diligently, came back. They would drive down the field, control the ball and the field, get a penalty, and Wilkenson made kick after kick, capitalizing on every Aussie mistake, every opportunity. 9-5. Then a masterful try that began with ‘one of the guys in the middle’ (some huge English man who I don’t know) passing beautifully to Wilkenson, who tossed it out to Robinson, the speedy wing, at just the right moment before being tackled. No one could catch Robinson. And Australia began to break down. Each player seemed to be trying to personally break through the English defense, and England was far too disciplined to let them. The half ended, 14-5.
I am so tired of athletes that strut, dance, and otherwise prance before the cameras over every little victory or failure. Ok, you score a goal in the world cup, you deserve a little dance, a little love from your teammates. Goals are few and far between. A game-winning home run, the final strike out, these deserve accolades. A key touchdown. A turnover that stops a drive. The game-winning shot in basketball, or a block or steal in the closing seconds, maybe. But you don’t see a shortstop doing a little dance every time he catches a line drive. You don’t see the infield forming a chorus line cause they turned a double play (though it’d be kind of amusing if they did, once). I love the NFL, but I am so sick of guys tackling the running back for a two yard loss, or making a first down, or just basically doing their job, and strutting around for thirty seconds for the camera. Maybe it’s because football has so many pauses, they have time to dance. I’m also tired of soccer players and their exaggerated celebrations for goals. Sure. It’s a goal. Goals are necessary for winning. But not every goal requires, as the Italians seem to do, an orgasmic primal scream of triumph, flips, knee slides, hogpiles, and on and on and on. It’s just a goal, people.
Rugby players, even when scoring tries or making kicks or pulling off particularly grand tackles, do not strut. The game’s about to continue. Get back to work. A backslap or two is fine when deserved, a little cheer. And when they do something wrong, they don’t collapse on the ground and bemoan their fate, crying out to the heavens, wondering, with all the pathos of protagonist of Greek tragedy, what they could possibly have done to deserve such a fate (here I am ranting about the strikers in the Italian, and other, European soccer leagues, who when they miss a chance tend to … overreact). Rugby players grimace a bit, nod to acknowledge they mishandled the ball, and get back to work.
The second half, ABBA playing loudly in the background, the rain continuing, begins, and seem to have inspired the Wallabies, who clawed back. England began pressing hard, but then with a stolen lineout at midfield, a little drive through the center of the pitch, another stolen lineout, there was a kick for Australia. 14-8. 20 minutes more, back and forth, many near chances for each team, denied by splendid play, chance, and the onset of fatigue. Australia definitely having the better of the possession, but England’s quick-strike ability more than compensating for the lack of ball-control. Besides, England was winning, and could focus on defense and field-position. Finally, though, the patient, pressing, relentless, play by the Aussies resulted in another kick from 38 yards out, but nicely positioned in the center of the pitch. 14-11.
Now Australia was within a kick from tying the match. England had to press back, but could not quite crack the Wallaby defense, and the last 10 minutes of the match began. Now the three point lead felt like it might just last, the world cup ending with something of a whimper, but with an English victory. The game was in Australia. No European team had ever won the cup (Australia, South Africa, and New Zealand are the dominant teams, generally). The pressure was on, and Australia just couldn’t get the ball! England seemed stronger, more disciplined as a team, they pushed and pushed, and set up Wilkenson with a drop-kick. These are tougher than the penalty kicks that both teams had used to score earlier – penalties in Rugby are relatively common, and its why having the ball in the opponents end is so critical – any penalty can result in a scoring chance. But for a drop kick, you have to drop the ball on the ground, and kick it as it comes back up. Meanwhile people are charging at you, and you have to hope it bounces true. He missed, wide to the right, just barely. The game still in range for Australia, but this is not a game that one can so easily mount desperate, last-minute, attacks, trying to even the score. Would Australia get one last chance?
73rd minute. A line-out for Australia at 38 meters. Meter by meter. To the 22 line. All the Australians want is a kick in range, a chance to tie, a chance … but they run out of room. Scrum, control to England. Kick all the way back over mid-field.
76th minute. A great kick by Arkham of Australia to drive the ball back to the 15 or so. A line-out for England, but Australia wins it! Drive to the middle of the field and … scrum for Australia.
78th minute. Australia must win the scrum, somehow get the ball in. The World Cup is on the line. England collapses the scrum, and it’s a close, tight-angled, penalty kick for Australia. This will tie it if it hits … AND … Flatley lines it up, the most important kick of his life, very makeable … AND … it’s perfect. TIE GAME in the last minute.
This is the sort of game that you can make legends about.
Overtime. 10 minutes. Then another 10 minutes. Then sudden-death if the game is still tied.
For Wilkenson, nothing is impossible. He stands, facing the ball, hands clasped before him, eyes on the uprights. This is in the first minute of overtime, a penalty awarded on a lineout around mid-field. No other kicker would even dream of attempting such a kick. Any other team would use a penalty there for field position. But for Wilkenson, nothing is impossible. It’s a curious, almost awkward, almost pious stance. But he explodes out of his set position, foot flying with amazing force and accuracy. The ball flies, straight, true, and just high enough, 17-14 for England.
Australia drives back. They’ve had one amazing comeback already. Can they muster another, somehow? They try, but every time Australia gains field position with a long kick, Wilkenson sends it back with a better one. England can’t score, though they come close. But they don’t need to.
Second overtime period. There’s now a distinction between the bloody (literally) warriors who have been on the pitch since the beginning of the game, their shirts stained and sometimes ripped, their weariness heavy on their bodies, and the substitutes which have been entering the game in the late stages. The veterans are more skilled, but weary. More and more people fall down with cramps, and have to be stretched out. The substitutes are energetic, but nervous, perhaps a bit stiff, not into the flow of the game yet. Both sides make errors, but initially none result in scores, though some cause loss of scoring chances. The Wallabies keep undermining their chances, crumbling beneath the pressure of losing before their home crowd. And it is these errors which could keep this game from being legendary, make the story the mistakes, not the brilliance of the English flyhalf, Wilkenson.
Unless Australia scores! Suddenly, Australia is just 25 meters out, and gains a penalty kic after a series of brilliant runs by the Aussies. It’s an easy angle. A chip shot. Pressure? Did I say that the last kick was the most important one of his career? Now it’s this one. Flatley is no Wilkenson, but he’s up the challenge. He lets the pressure show on his face, but the kick is easy, and sails through. Tie game. 17-17 with 2 minutes left in the period.
Ok, so maybe we will get a legend, a sudden-death period, some brilliant feat of skill. Perhaps Australia was playing for the next period, feeling that this one was done. England, on the other hand, reckons that with 2 minutes, they can muster something. The English kick the ball deep into enemy territory. The Australian player, a substitute who came in late in the game, and clearly has considerable skill, but is nervous, returns the kick poorly, leaving England with a line-out about forty meters out, within range. Off the line-out, England makes a brilliant, sudden run up the middle, one of their players catching the defense off-guard, and charging, rather than stringing the play out towards the sideline. It’s a great play. It’s another error. England is in range. They maneuver the ball expertly, gain a few more meters and position, then toss the ball back to … who else … Johnny Wilkenson. He drops the ball to the ground, and kicks. Three points. 5 seconds left in the match. England is the world champion, 20-17. The legend is born.
Now is the time for celebration, but they still don’t strut and prance. They cheer. They smile. They shake hands. They bleed. They hoist the world cup to the crowds. They kiss the cup with grace and reverence. They display their gap-tooth smiles. They sing! No, really. They sing like all European sportsfans. They sing their fight songs. They sing, ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ accompanied by thousands of fans. Ok. That’s a bit surreal. Swing Low? Really? Anyway, they wear their red and white uniforms, their crosses of St. George (the crusaders’ cross, just for a touch of irony). The Australians gather as a team and handle the defeat with grace. Besides, they won last time. They’ll win again. Such men. I may never watch American football again. Or at least not for a a day.
This is not the beautiful game. This is a game where massive, unarmored, men slam into each other and drive them to the turf, then keep pushing and pushing, playing a game of field position, penalties, strength. Where the scrums lock and the men drive their legs into the ground, straining to stay off the turf, fighting for inches, inches.
This is a game of grace, though. The high, perfectly timed, kicks or the darting passing of the ball on the ground, and this ball was never meant to roll so true. The sudden swift chain of passes to the sidelines and the ‘little quick’ guys who dart, fearlessly, into the line of opposing players, hoping, like in the child’s game of Red Rover, to break through by sheer audacity and speed. The kicker for England, the superstar, perhaps the best rugby player in the world, Johnny Wilkenson – he’s a pretty boy, compared to some, but he plays the game with the force and grace of a master martial artist. He’s capable of kicking the ball anywhere, with any arc, any path, at any time. When he has the ball, the opponents have to be afraid of where he might send it. You know that if England wins, it will be on his shoulders. But he also can grab an enemy, lift him into the air, rob him of the ball, and slam him to the ground. They compare him to Beckham, because both seemingly can make the ball do anything, but Beckham never had such power or such grace. Beckham never has battled, and bested, giants.
Australia vs. England. The rugby world cub final.
I am not a rugby fan, by which I mean that I like and mostly understand the sport but do not follow it with the obsessive nature that I do the NFL, NBA, MLB, college basketball, the world of soccer generally, and so forth. Every time I’ve seen a Rugby World Cup (RWC henceforth) game this fall, it’s been a blowout, with one superior to the other from the getgo. Poor Japan (who even lost to the U.S.), plucky but tiny, straining against the behemoths of Fiji. New Zealand strewing their lesser foes in their wake, before finally falling to Australia. Wilkenson nailing drop-kick after drop-kick, never missing a penalty, just adding nail after nail to the coffin of England’s opponents. 6’7” (head to toe and, it seems, shoulder to shoulder) Frenchmen who I suspect would like to have a word with those Americans who so blithely question France’s will to fight (my favorite joke is: How many French soldiers does it take to defend Paris? No one knows, it’s never been tried! Don’t make that joke to these men.). It’s a fun game to watch, but having missed the semifinals, I was hoping to finally see a great game.
But here was Australia vs. England. And although in U.S. Football they often hit harder, blindsiding their opponents, the NFL has nothing on this game for the sheer force of contact again and again and again and again without the constant pauses. The battle began.
Australia jumped up right away, 5-0. A beautifully timed kick from the center of the pitch to the large wing, Tuqili, who blocked out the English defender and scored the try. But then England, carefully, calmly, diligently, came back. They would drive down the field, control the ball and the field, get a penalty, and Wilkenson made kick after kick, capitalizing on every Aussie mistake, every opportunity. 9-5. Then a masterful try that began with ‘one of the guys in the middle’ (some huge English man who I don’t know) passing beautifully to Wilkenson, who tossed it out to Robinson, the speedy wing, at just the right moment before being tackled. No one could catch Robinson. And Australia began to break down. Each player seemed to be trying to personally break through the English defense, and England was far too disciplined to let them. The half ended, 14-5.
I am so tired of athletes that strut, dance, and otherwise prance before the cameras over every little victory or failure. Ok, you score a goal in the world cup, you deserve a little dance, a little love from your teammates. Goals are few and far between. A game-winning home run, the final strike out, these deserve accolades. A key touchdown. A turnover that stops a drive. The game-winning shot in basketball, or a block or steal in the closing seconds, maybe. But you don’t see a shortstop doing a little dance every time he catches a line drive. You don’t see the infield forming a chorus line cause they turned a double play (though it’d be kind of amusing if they did, once). I love the NFL, but I am so sick of guys tackling the running back for a two yard loss, or making a first down, or just basically doing their job, and strutting around for thirty seconds for the camera. Maybe it’s because football has so many pauses, they have time to dance. I’m also tired of soccer players and their exaggerated celebrations for goals. Sure. It’s a goal. Goals are necessary for winning. But not every goal requires, as the Italians seem to do, an orgasmic primal scream of triumph, flips, knee slides, hogpiles, and on and on and on. It’s just a goal, people.
Rugby players, even when scoring tries or making kicks or pulling off particularly grand tackles, do not strut. The game’s about to continue. Get back to work. A backslap or two is fine when deserved, a little cheer. And when they do something wrong, they don’t collapse on the ground and bemoan their fate, crying out to the heavens, wondering, with all the pathos of protagonist of Greek tragedy, what they could possibly have done to deserve such a fate (here I am ranting about the strikers in the Italian, and other, European soccer leagues, who when they miss a chance tend to … overreact). Rugby players grimace a bit, nod to acknowledge they mishandled the ball, and get back to work.
The second half, ABBA playing loudly in the background, the rain continuing, begins, and seem to have inspired the Wallabies, who clawed back. England began pressing hard, but then with a stolen lineout at midfield, a little drive through the center of the pitch, another stolen lineout, there was a kick for Australia. 14-8. 20 minutes more, back and forth, many near chances for each team, denied by splendid play, chance, and the onset of fatigue. Australia definitely having the better of the possession, but England’s quick-strike ability more than compensating for the lack of ball-control. Besides, England was winning, and could focus on defense and field-position. Finally, though, the patient, pressing, relentless, play by the Aussies resulted in another kick from 38 yards out, but nicely positioned in the center of the pitch. 14-11.
Now Australia was within a kick from tying the match. England had to press back, but could not quite crack the Wallaby defense, and the last 10 minutes of the match began. Now the three point lead felt like it might just last, the world cup ending with something of a whimper, but with an English victory. The game was in Australia. No European team had ever won the cup (Australia, South Africa, and New Zealand are the dominant teams, generally). The pressure was on, and Australia just couldn’t get the ball! England seemed stronger, more disciplined as a team, they pushed and pushed, and set up Wilkenson with a drop-kick. These are tougher than the penalty kicks that both teams had used to score earlier – penalties in Rugby are relatively common, and its why having the ball in the opponents end is so critical – any penalty can result in a scoring chance. But for a drop kick, you have to drop the ball on the ground, and kick it as it comes back up. Meanwhile people are charging at you, and you have to hope it bounces true. He missed, wide to the right, just barely. The game still in range for Australia, but this is not a game that one can so easily mount desperate, last-minute, attacks, trying to even the score. Would Australia get one last chance?
73rd minute. A line-out for Australia at 38 meters. Meter by meter. To the 22 line. All the Australians want is a kick in range, a chance to tie, a chance … but they run out of room. Scrum, control to England. Kick all the way back over mid-field.
76th minute. A great kick by Arkham of Australia to drive the ball back to the 15 or so. A line-out for England, but Australia wins it! Drive to the middle of the field and … scrum for Australia.
78th minute. Australia must win the scrum, somehow get the ball in. The World Cup is on the line. England collapses the scrum, and it’s a close, tight-angled, penalty kick for Australia. This will tie it if it hits … AND … Flatley lines it up, the most important kick of his life, very makeable … AND … it’s perfect. TIE GAME in the last minute.
This is the sort of game that you can make legends about.
Overtime. 10 minutes. Then another 10 minutes. Then sudden-death if the game is still tied.
For Wilkenson, nothing is impossible. He stands, facing the ball, hands clasped before him, eyes on the uprights. This is in the first minute of overtime, a penalty awarded on a lineout around mid-field. No other kicker would even dream of attempting such a kick. Any other team would use a penalty there for field position. But for Wilkenson, nothing is impossible. It’s a curious, almost awkward, almost pious stance. But he explodes out of his set position, foot flying with amazing force and accuracy. The ball flies, straight, true, and just high enough, 17-14 for England.
Australia drives back. They’ve had one amazing comeback already. Can they muster another, somehow? They try, but every time Australia gains field position with a long kick, Wilkenson sends it back with a better one. England can’t score, though they come close. But they don’t need to.
Second overtime period. There’s now a distinction between the bloody (literally) warriors who have been on the pitch since the beginning of the game, their shirts stained and sometimes ripped, their weariness heavy on their bodies, and the substitutes which have been entering the game in the late stages. The veterans are more skilled, but weary. More and more people fall down with cramps, and have to be stretched out. The substitutes are energetic, but nervous, perhaps a bit stiff, not into the flow of the game yet. Both sides make errors, but initially none result in scores, though some cause loss of scoring chances. The Wallabies keep undermining their chances, crumbling beneath the pressure of losing before their home crowd. And it is these errors which could keep this game from being legendary, make the story the mistakes, not the brilliance of the English flyhalf, Wilkenson.
Unless Australia scores! Suddenly, Australia is just 25 meters out, and gains a penalty kic after a series of brilliant runs by the Aussies. It’s an easy angle. A chip shot. Pressure? Did I say that the last kick was the most important one of his career? Now it’s this one. Flatley is no Wilkenson, but he’s up the challenge. He lets the pressure show on his face, but the kick is easy, and sails through. Tie game. 17-17 with 2 minutes left in the period.
Ok, so maybe we will get a legend, a sudden-death period, some brilliant feat of skill. Perhaps Australia was playing for the next period, feeling that this one was done. England, on the other hand, reckons that with 2 minutes, they can muster something. The English kick the ball deep into enemy territory. The Australian player, a substitute who came in late in the game, and clearly has considerable skill, but is nervous, returns the kick poorly, leaving England with a line-out about forty meters out, within range. Off the line-out, England makes a brilliant, sudden run up the middle, one of their players catching the defense off-guard, and charging, rather than stringing the play out towards the sideline. It’s a great play. It’s another error. England is in range. They maneuver the ball expertly, gain a few more meters and position, then toss the ball back to … who else … Johnny Wilkenson. He drops the ball to the ground, and kicks. Three points. 5 seconds left in the match. England is the world champion, 20-17. The legend is born.
Now is the time for celebration, but they still don’t strut and prance. They cheer. They smile. They shake hands. They bleed. They hoist the world cup to the crowds. They kiss the cup with grace and reverence. They display their gap-tooth smiles. They sing! No, really. They sing like all European sportsfans. They sing their fight songs. They sing, ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ accompanied by thousands of fans. Ok. That’s a bit surreal. Swing Low? Really? Anyway, they wear their red and white uniforms, their crosses of St. George (the crusaders’ cross, just for a touch of irony). The Australians gather as a team and handle the defeat with grace. Besides, they won last time. They’ll win again. Such men. I may never watch American football again. Or at least not for a a day.
